Berger looked at Blomkvist. She had never doubted that he was an honest person, but now she felt dizzy and wondered whether the Wennerstrom affair had broken him - that what he had been working on was all a figment of his imagination. Blomkvist was at that moment unpacking two boxes of printed-out source material. Berger blanched. She wanted, of course, to know how it had come into his possession.
It took a while to convince her that this odd girl, who had said not one word during the meeting, had unlimited access to Wennerstrom's computer. And not just his - she had also hacked into the computers of several of his lawyers and close associates.
Berger's immediate reaction was that they could not use the material since it had been obtained through illegal means.
But, of course, they could use it. Blomkvist pointed out that they had no obligation to explain how they had acquired the material. They could just as well have a source with access to Wennerstrom's computer who had burned everything on his hard drive to a CD.
Finally Berger realised what a weapon she had in her hands. She felt exhausted and still had questions, but she did not know where to begin. At last she leaned back against the sofa and threw out her hands.
"Mikael, what happened up in Hedestad?"
Salander looked up sharply. Blomkvist answered with a question.
"How are you getting along with Harriet Vanger?"
"Fine. I think. I've met her twice. Christer and I drove up to Hedestad for a board meeting last week. We got drunk on wine."
"And the board meeting?"
"She kept her word."
"Ricky, I know you're frustrated that I've been ducking you and coming up with excuses not to tell you what happened. You and I have never had secrets from each other, and all of a sudden there's six months of my life that I'm... not prepared to tell you about."
Berger met Blomkvist's gaze. She knew him inside and out, but what she saw in his eyes was something she had never seen before. He was begging her not to ask. Salander watched their wordless dialogue. She was no part of it.
"Was it that bad?"
"It was worse. I've been dreading this conversation. I promise to tell you, but I've spent several months suppressing my feelings while Wennerstrom has absorbed all my attention... I'm still not ready. I'd prefer it if Harriet told you instead."
"What's that mark around your neck?"
"Lisbeth saved my life up there. If it weren't for her, I'd be dead."
Berger's eyes widened. She stared at the girl in the leather jacket.
"And right now you need to come to an agreement with her. She is our source."
Berger sat for a time, thinking. Then she did something that astonished Blomkvist and startled Salander; she surprised even herself. The whole time she had been sitting at Mikael's living-room table, she had felt Salander's eyes on her. A taciturn girl with hostile vibrations.
Berger stood up and went around the table and threw her arms around the girl. Salander squirmed like a worm about to be put on a hook.
CHAPTER 29
Saturday, November 1 - Tuesday, November 25
Salander was surfing through Wennerstrom's cyber-empire. She had been staring at her computer screen for almost eleven hours. The idea that had materialised in some unexplored nook of her brain during the last week at Sandhamn had grown into a manic preoccupation. For four weeks she had isolated herself in her apartment and ignored any communication from Armansky. She had spent twelve hours a day in front of her computer, some days more, and the rest of her waking hours she had brooded over the same problem.
During the past month she had had intermittent contact with Blomkvist. He too was preoccupied, busy at the Millennium offices. They had conferred by telephone a couple of times each week, and she had kept him updated on Wennerstrom's correspondence and other activities.
For the hundredth time she went over every detail. She was not afraid that she had missed anything, but she was not sure that she had understood how every one of the intricate connections fitted together.
This much-discussed empire was like a living, formless, pulsating organism that kept changing shape. It consisted of options, bonds, shares, partnerships, loan interest, income interest, deposits, bank accounts, payment transfers, and thousands of other elements. An incredibly large proportion of the assets was deposited in post-office-box companies that owned one another.
The financial pundits' most inflated analyses of the Wennerstrom Group estimated its value at more than 900 billion kronor. That was a bluff, or at least a figure that was grossly exaggerated. Obviously Wennerstrom himself was by no means poor. She calculated the real assets to be worth between 90 and 100 billion kronor, which was nothing to sneez eat. A thorough audit of the entire corporation would take years. All in all Salander had identified close to three thousand separate accounts and bank holdings all over the world. Wennerstrom was devoting himself to fraud that was so extensive it was no longer merely criminal - it was business.
Somewhere in the Wennerstrom organism there was also substance. Three assets kept showing up in the hierarchy. The fixed Swedish assets were unassailable and genuine, available to public scrutiny, balance sheets, and audits. The American firm was solid, and a bank in New York served as the base for all liquid capital. The story was in the business with the post-office-box companies in places such as Gibraltar and Cyprus and Macao. Wennerstrom was like a clearing house for the illegal weapons trade, money laundering for suspect enterprises in Colombia, and extremely unorthodox businesses in Russia.
An anonymous account in the Cayman Islands was unique; it was personally controlled by Wennerstrom but was not connected to any companies. A few hundredths of a percent of every deal that Wennerstrom made would be siphoned into the Cayman Islands via the post-office-box companies.
Salander worked in a trance-like state. The account-click-email-click-balance sheets-click. She noted down the latest transfers. She tracked a small transaction in Japan to Singapore and on via Luxembourg to the Cayman Islands. She understood how it worked. It was as if she were part of the impulses in cyberspace. Small changes. The latest email. One brief message of somewhat peripheral interest was sent at 10:00 p.m. The PGP encryption programme (rattle, rattle) was a joke for anyone who was already inside his computer and could read the message in plain text:
Berger has stopped arguing about the ads. Has she given up or does she have something cooking? Your source at the editorial offices assured us that they were on the brink of ruin, but it sounds as if they just hired a new person. Find out what's happening. Blomkvist has been working at Sandhamn for the past few weeks, but no-one knows what he's writing. He's been seen at the editorial offices the past few days. Can you arrange for an advance copy of the next issue?/HEW/
Nothing dramatic. Let him worry. Your goose is cooked, old man.
At 5:30 in the morning she turned off her computer and got out a new pack of cigarettes. She had drunk four, no, five Cokes during the night, and now she got out a sixth and went to sit on the sofa. She was wearing only knickers and a washed-out camouflage shirt advertising Soldier of Fortune magazine, with the slogan KILL THEM ALL AND LET GOD SORT THEM OUT. She realised that she was cold, so she reached for a blanket, which she wrapped around herself.
She felt high, as if she had consumed some inappropriate and presumably illegal substance. She focused her gaze on the street lamp outside the window and sat still while her brain worked at top speed. Mamma-click-sister-click-Mimmi-click-Holger Palmgren. Evil Fingers. And Armansky. The job. Harriet Vanger. Click. Martin Vanger. Click. The golf club. Click. The lawyer Bjurman. Click. Every single fucking detail that she couldn't forget even if she tried.
She wondered whether Bjurman would ever take his clothes off in front of a woman again, and if he did, how was he going to explain the tattoos on his stomach? And the next time he went to the doctor how would he avoid taking off his clothes?
And Mikael Blomkvist. Click.
She considered him to be a good person, possibly with a Practical Pig complex that was sometimes a little too apparent. And he was unbearably naive with regard to certain elementary moral issues. He had an indulgent and forgiving personality that looked for explanations and excuses for the way people behaved, and he would never get it that the raptors of the world understood only one language. She felt almost awkwardly protective whenever she thought of him.
She did not remember falling asleep, but she woke up at 9:00 a.m. with a crick in her neck and with her head leaning against the wall behind the sofa. She tottered to the bedroom and fell back to sleep.
It was without a doubt the biggest story of their lives. For the first time in a year and a half, Berger was happy in the way that only an editor who has a spectacular scoop in the oven can be. She and Blomkvist were polishing the article one last time when Salander called him on his mobile.
"I forgot to say that Wennerstrom is starting to get worried about what you've been doing lately, and he's asked for an advance copy of the next issue."
"How do you know... ah, forget that. Any idea what he plans to do?"
"Nix. Just one logical guess."
Blomkvist thought for a few seconds. "The printer," he exclaimed.
Berger raised her eyebrows.
"If you're keeping a lid on the editorial offices, there aren't many other possibilities. Provided none of his thugs is planning to pay you a nighttime visit."
Blomkvist turned to Berger. "Book a new printer for this issue. Now. And call Dragan Armansky - I want security here at night for the next week." Back to Salander. "Thanks."
"What's it worth?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's the tip worth?"
"What would you like?"
"I'd like to discuss it over coffee. Right now."
They met at Kaffebar on Hornsgatan. Salander looked so serious when Blomkvist sat down on the bench next to her that he felt a pang of concern. As usual, she came straight to the point.
"I need to borrow some money."
Blomkvist gave her one of his most foolish grins and reached for his wallet.
"Sure. How much?"
"120,000 kronor."
"Steady, steady." He put his wallet away.
"I'm not kidding. I need to borrow 120,000 kronor for... let's say six weeks. I have a chance to make an investment, but I don't have anyone else to turn to. You've got roughly 140,000 kronor in your current account right now. You'll get your money back."
No point commenting on the fact that Salander had hacked his bank password.
"You don't have to borrow the money from me," he replied. "We haven't discussed your share yet, but it's more than enough to cover what you want to borrow."
"My share?"
"Lisbeth, I have an insane fee to cash in from Henrik Vanger, and we're going to finalise the deal at the end of the year. Without you, there wouldn't be a me and Millennium would have gone under. I'm planning to split the fee with you. Fifty-fifty."
Salander gave him a searching look. A frown had appeared on her brow. Blomkvist was used to her silences. Finally she shook her head.
"I don't want your money."
"But..."
"I don't want one single krona from you, unless it comes in the form of presents on my birthday."
"Come to think of it, I don't even know when your birthday is."
"You're a journalist. Check it out."
"I'm serious, Lisbeth. About splitting the money."
"I'm serious too. I only want to borrow it, and I need it tomorrow."
She didn't even ask how much her share would be. "I'll be happy to go to the bank with you today and lend you the amount you need. But at the end of the year let's have another talk about your share." He held up his hand. "And by the way, when is your birthday?"
"On Walpurgis Night," she replied. "Very fitting, don't you think? That's when I gad around with a broom between my legs."
She landed in Zürich at 7:30 in the evening and took a taxi to the Matterhorn Hotel. She had booked a room under the name of Irene Nesser, and she identified herself using a Norwegian passport in that name. Irene Nesser had shoulder-length blonde hair. Salander had bought a wig in Stockholm and used 10,000 kronor of what she had borrowed from Blomkvist to buy two passports through one of the contacts in Plague's international network.
She went to her room, locked the door, and got undressed. She lay on the bed and looked up at the ceiling in the room that cost 1,600 kronor per night. She felt empty. She had already run through half the sum she'd borrowed, and even though she had added in every krona of her own savings, she was still on a tight budget. She stopped thinking and fell asleep almost at once.
She awoke just after 5:00 in the morning. She showered and spent a long time masking the tattoo on her neck with a thick layer of skin-coloured lotion and powder over it. The second item on her checklist was to make an appointment at the beauty salon in the lobby of a significantly more expensive hotel for 6:30 that morning. She bought another blonde wig, this one in a page-boy style, and then she had a manicure, getting pink nails attached to her own chewed ones. She also got false eyelashes, more powder, rouge, and finally lipstick and other make-up. No change from 8,000 kronor.
She paid with a credit card in the name of Monica Sholes, and she showed them her British passport with that name.
Next stop was Camille's House of Fashion down the street. After an hour she came out wearing black boots, a sand-coloured skirt with matching blouse, black tights, a waist-length jacket, and a beret. Every item bore an expensive designer label. She had let the sales girl make the selection. She had also chosen an exclusive leather briefcase and a small Samsonite suitcase. The crowning touches were discreet earrings and a simple gold chain around her neck. The credit card had been debited 44,000 kronor.
